


A little touchup, and a little paint

by Lila82



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 01, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-03-10 00:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13492701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lila82/pseuds/Lila82
Summary: The endless, echoing loneliness comes for Karen.  Luckily, she has people to get her through it.





	1. I just want someone to talk to

There's a story that Karen's colleagues like to tell over drinks.

A year or so before she joined "The Bulletin," there was a photographer that slept under his desk. Something about a breakup and getting kicked out of his apartment and needing a place to live. The details are always a little hazy, and only get hazier as the hour grows later.

The photographer had talent, which helped plead his case, and using his cubicle as a crash pad wasn't technically a fireable offense, but it also didn't help. So three days after he got caught, he was marched out by security holding a pillow and sleeping bag and what was left of his dignity.

Karen thinks of that story a lot when she's pulling late nights. She doesn't have to chase stories anymore – they find her. Every criminal in the city seems to have her email and something to say. Some of them are innocent; most of them are not. Every single one is complicated. They all want the Frank Castle treatment. They all want someone to hear them, to see them, to know more about them than the sum of their crimes. Karen does her best, to give them a voice.

She likes writing at "The Bulletin", with its thin walls and bad coffee and persistent stench of stale cigarette smoke. In her office alone with Ben's ghost, she finds it easier to forget.

"Reverse happy hour?" Joanna, Karen's office neighbor, pokes her head in around 10:00 pm. Karen likes Jo. She's friendly but not too invested, and doesn't get upset when Karen almost always turns her down.

"No, thanks."

Jo doesn’t try again, but she does glance around Karen's dark, cramped office. "Just get out of here tonight, okay?"

"Sure." Karen smiles tightly and turns back to her laptop.

She thinks about that photographer. She has a bed and an apartment filled with things, but still – she knows what it's like to feel like you don't have a home.

 

* * *

 

It's past 2:00 am when Karen stumbles into her apartment, kicking off her shoes by the door and tossing her coat over the back of the couch. She turns on her teapot to let the water heat while she changes out of her work clothes.

She tidies up a bit as the coffee steeps, puts her coat away and lines up her shoes by the door, and when the three minutes are up she plops down on the couch in old sweats and slouchy socks and breathes in deep.

Sometimes it feels like the last few months were a dream, but she has these things to remind her that it was real: a gun in her purse, the smell of black coffee, peonies falling like snowflakes across her windowsill.

The mug is hot and her palms burn, but she holds on with two hands.

 

* * *

 

"This is a new look for you, Page." Ellison's leaning against the doorjamb of Karen's office, his expression its usual mix of exasperated and concerned.

Karen runs a hand through her hair and something stiff and white flakes off onto her shoulder. _Yogurt_. There's yogurt in her hair. She tries to think back to the last time she ate, but the day is a blur. Probably breakfast. Maybe dinner the night before. She can’t remember.

She picks the remaining flakes out of her hair and ties it back. "Thanks."

Ellison closes the door and takes a seat across the desk. It's littered with empty coffee cups and post-it notes, so different from her neatly ordered apartment, but Karen likes it messy. It looks lived in. She likes thinking that even if she walked away tomorrow, someone would know she was there.

"Go home."

Karen glances up from her keyboard. "It's only 4:00 – "

"I know it's been a rough few months, but you can't do this anymore." He gestures around the office with its sad beige walls and stained carpet. "HR has people you can talk to."

She almost laughs, because the thought of talking to anyone about what's happening in her head is absurd.

“Tell me,” she imagines herself saying. “Have you watched a man die?”

Karen’s seen men die. She’s seen bullet holes heal and bruises fade. She’s pressed her hand to a beating heart that long should have stopped. She’s seen men die and stay dead. When her finger’s on the trigger, they don’t get up again.

She imagines telling all this to the HR-approved shrink and she can no longer hold in the laughter.

It comes out strangled – unnatural – and Ellison’s face pinches deeper with worry. “Karen,” he says and she knows that tone. It tells her that what he’s about to say is non-negotiable, that it’s for her own good. It’s the tone Matt always used when she disappointed him. He used that tone more often than not.

“Karen,” Ellison says again. “Get a plant. Or a cat. Something that makes you leave this place.” He smiles at her, weary and worried, but her friend. She’s almost forgotten what they look like. “I don’t care what you do but it can’t be this.”

“I – ” she starts, searching for the right words. Ellison knows she’s a good reporter, dedicated and stubborn, a champion for the underdog. He likes her work, because it sells papers and heaps praise upon “The Bulletin.” He likes her and he trusts her and most days she trusts him, but not with this. He gave her a job and right now that job is saving her, quieting the steady thrum in her head of all that she’s lost. The empty spaces in her heart, the secrets she carries – she won’t put that on him.

“Karen,” he interrupts. “Please.”

Maybe it’s because they’re in Ben’s office, but she can’t bear to break another man’s heart. This man went out on a limb for her. The least she can do is give him peace of mind.

She picks up her purse. “Okay.”

Ellison looks doubtful, but doesn’t push further. “Remember what I said about the cat.”

“Sure boss.” Karen has no intention of getting a cat, but she remembers the long months she spent waiting for a sign, the relief she felt when a homeless man with a beard asked her for money and she looked a little closer and found Frank hiding underneath.

She won’t put that on Ellison either.

 

* * *

 

The plan was a chia pet, but Karen somehow ends up with a dog instead.

She didn’t mean for it to happen, but the human society is always parading sad-eyed rescues outside the Trader Joe’s on 22nd and 6th. Karen’s a sucker for those eyes, but her will is strong. Most nights, she keeps walking if they’re out on display.

Tonight is different. Maybe it was Ellison’s words, or the prospect of spending a night alone in an empty apartment, but Karen doesn’t keep walking. She lets the dogs lick her face and nuzzle her palm and an hour later she’s walking away with an #adoptdontshop sticker and a dog tucked into her tote bag.

It’s a tiny thing, likely a Schnauzer mixed with a few other breeds, and even fully grown it weighs less than ten pounds.

“I can’t believe no one’s scooped him up,” Karen had said as she snuggled the dog against her chest.

“She’s female,” the volunteer responded. “And she doesn’t like men.”

Karen doesn’t have much use for them either, and it was the deciding factor in giving the tiny ball of fur a home. They had only just met and the dog had already taken to her, burrowing under her scarf to escape the cold.

When she’s back in her apartment, she starts to doubt her choice. A dog isn’t a chia pet. It’s a living, breathing, feeling thing. She sinks onto the couch and closes her eyes. She feels raw inside, hollowed out by too many disappointments. She’s not sure there’s anything left to give.

Karen keeps thinking on it as she gets ready for bed. They stopped at a pet store on the way home so she could buy food and necessities, but her new roommate won’t stay in her own bed. She’s too small to climb up herself so she whines until Karen lets her under the covers. The dog curls up in the crook of her neck, a soft, warm weight against her collarbone. It feels nice, and not only the added heat. 

Karen can feel her heartbeat, slow and steady beneath the layers of fur. It’s nice knowing someone else is there.

She wakes up the next morning to a persistent whine coming from the dog perched on her pillow. It’s barely 6:00 am but it’s the latest Karen’s slept in days, an easy, dreamless sleep that lasted the entire night, and she’s only a little groggy when she pulls on sweats and clips on the leash to take her dog for a walk.

Outside is a wet, dreary early January morning but the dog doesn’t seem to mind. She skips along happily, pausing every now and then to do her business, until Karen stops by a bodega to get a cup of coffee.

The dog, all six pounds of her, glares at the man behind the counter and growls.

He eyes her warily, tucked away within the confines of Karen’s jacket. “You’re not supposed to have animals in here.”

“She’s harmless,” Karen says, but when she glances down, the dog looks more like a rabid rat than the ball of fluff she resembled a few hours earlier. Every hair stands on end, making her appear about twice her actual size. She barks sharply to further disprove Karen’s point.

The cashier shoves the coffee at her. “Get out.”

As Frank would say, she’s all heart, and she leaves a dollar in the tip charge even though the cashier doesn’t deserve it. On the slick pavement, she puts the dog on the ground and frowns. “That was rude.”

The dog holds her head high and stares back. Karen laughs, light and tinkling, so different than she sounded with Ellison the day before. “I should have listened more closely when they said you don’t like strangers.”

The dog drops to her stomach and rests her head on her paws. She looks sweet and innocent, like she doesn’t realize the stunt she just pulled, and then the light bulb goes off in Karen’s head.

“Alright, princess,” she says. “You just got yourself a name.”

 

* * *

 

“This isn’t what I meant.” Ellison is in his usual spot, propped against the doorjamb to her office.

Karen doesn’t look up from her keyboard. “You said to get a pet.”

“I said a cat and didn’t give you permission to bring it to work.”

The dog, previously stretched across Karen’s desk, notices the newcomer and rises to her feet, letting out a sharp bark.

Ellison looks pained. “And he’s mean too.”

Karen rubs the dog between her ears. “It’s okay. He’s one of the good guys.” She keeps the pressure there until the dog lies down again, beady eyes trained on Ellison.

He takes the chair across her desk. “What’s the little monster’s name?”

“Bruce.” Karen clicks save and closes her laptop. It’s likely to be a lengthy conversation and she doesn’t want to lose her work.

“Big name for a little guy.”

“She’s a lady.”

Ellison barks out a laugh. “Of course she is.”

Karen gathers Bruce against her chest. “She’s the sweetest thing until she gets riled up and then all bets are off.” She presses a kiss to Bruce’s head. “She keeps me safe and doesn’t realize she’s doing it. Only difference is that she doesn’t turn green.”

“So you named your dog after the Incredible Hulk.”

She cuddles Bruce a little closer. “I think it’s time we give the fake superheroes a chance.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Ellison directs his gaze to Bruce. “I’m glad you actually listened but let’s not make this an every day thing.”

“Won’t happen again.”

Karen leaves Bruce at the apartment the next day and the ones after that. She goes home during lunch to take her for a walk, and although she’s still pulling late hours into the evening, there’s always a little face waiting to greet her when she walks through the door.

She stops thinking about that photographer.

 

* * *

 

A week later, a Nor’easter dumps a foot of snow on the city. It’s NYC and nothing really shuts down, but other than twice daily walks to keep Bruce from peeing on her floor, Karen doesn’t venture outside.

She holes up in her apartment with her laptop and tackles her latest assignment, slumlords in Hunts Point torching their own buildings to collect on the insurance. It’s an important story, and one she believes in, but she doesn’t have the drive today. She watches an hour of “The Bronx is Burning” for inspiration but mostly stares at a blinking cursor, willing the story to write itself.

She can’t seem to say enough about the vigilantes that used to roam her streets but when it comes to normal, every day people, she’s at a loss for words.

She’s lying on the couch with Bruce on her belly, trying hard not to think about the thousands of words she wrote about Frank and the blank computer screen in front of her, when there’s a knock on her door.

Bruce erupts in a stream of barks, but Karen’s more cautious. She grabs the .380 from her purse, slowly sliding off the safety while she checks the peephole.

A large man she’s never seen before is standing on her welcome mat, patiently waiting for her to open the door.

“Miss Page? I’m a friend of Frank’s.”

When she doesn’t respond, he reaches into his coat pocket and slowly holds a photo up to the peephole. It’s him and Frank – a much younger Frank – but she recognizes him anyway. The stranger too. She stares at the picture for a few extra seconds before opening the door. She’s never seen Frank smile, not like that.

She keeps the gun trained on the man as he steps into the apartment. “You’ll forgive me for the gun, but Billy Russo was one of Frank’s military buddies too.”

“You don’t need to keep a weapon on me, but fair point.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Curtis. Frank and I served a few tours together in Iraq.”

Karen ignores his hand and gestures to the couch with her free one. “Well, Curtis, why don’t you take a seat?”

He keeps his hands up as he settles into the cushions. Bruce growls at him from her place between Karen’s feet.

“Some guard dog you got there.”

“She’s protective.”

Curtis laughs. He has a handsome smile, the kind that lights up his entire face, all the way up to his warm brown eyes, and Karen suddenly doesn’t feel the need for the gun. Operation Cerberus is dead and Billy Russo might never wake up. There hasn’t been a vigilante sighting in months. Wherever Frank is, whatever he’s doing, his past isn’t on her doorstep.

She lowers the gun. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here?”

Slowly, so slowly, like he’s afraid she’ll spook and put a bullet between his eyes, Curtis pulls a postcard out of his coat pocket. “Frank asked me to give this to you.” His careful gaze shifts between the dog and the gun while she examines the gift.

The front side is a stock photo of a forest and river and other than her address, there’s only one sentence written on the reverse.

_“And if you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”_

She holds a hand to her mouth, unsure if she’s going to laugh or cry.

Curtis shakes his head. “I didn’t get it either.”

Karen does. She remembers standing by the water, bright lights and dark shadows and Frank’s lips on her cheek in the cold winter night.

“I want there to be an after for you,” she’d said. His war is over and now Frank’s figuring out how to live. She blinks away a stray tear. This is what she wanted. She’s happy for him. It doesn’t matter that she thought after might include her.

She looks at the card again, takes in his neat, even scrawl. “You could have mailed the postcard. It has my address right here.”

“He wanted me to deliver it in person.” Curtis looks out the window, at the snow still falling in a steady blanket from the sky. “With the blizzard, I think he’s worried. You know how he is.”

Karen thought she did. She thought they had something – built something – but Curtis actually saw him in person and all she got was a dumb postcard.

“Maybe.”

Curtis opens his mouth to speak but she cuts him off before he can get any words out. Whatever he’s was going to say, she doesn’t want to hear it. She’s so, so tired of men and their pity.

He makes to get up and leave, and to Karen’s surprise, she stops him.

She tells herself that he came all this way in the middle of a snowstorm and hasn’t even taken off his coat. Plus, she needs a break from the article that refuses to write itself.

But she knows, deep down, that it’s neither of those things. He's her only connection to Frank and she’s not ready to let that go.

“I was just about to make myself a drink. Can I count you in?”

He glances at the kettle on her kitchen counter. “Tea?”

She smiles and digs out the whiskey. “I’m thinking something stronger.”

Curtis studies her books while she makes hot toddies, taking a few off the shelves to examine more closely. Karen feels suddenly vulnerable as she brings the mugs to the coffee table. Her books are like a window into the woman she is and the things she believes. Curtis is Frank’s friend, more like his family. Will he like what he sees?

"You have a nice selection." He's holding her copy of _Moby Dick_. "I even got Frank to read this one."

Karen glances at the enormous white whale on the front cover. "Subtle."

Curtis chuckles and puts the book back. "You know Frank. It's not easy getting through that thick skull of his."

Karen can laugh at that. In the few months they've known each other, how many times did they repeat the same argument?

"You wanna talk about him?" Curtis's face is open and kind, without the pity she feared.

"Yeah," she says softly. "I would."

Curtis takes the couch and Karen takes her chair, Bruce curled up in her lap. She sips her drink, relishing the whiskey's burn. She wanted this conversation but that knowledge doesn't make it any easier.

"Do you see him?"

"He comes in for group every few weeks. He's talking more. That's a good sign."

"Can you tell me what he's talking about?"

Curtis gives her a long look. "You know I can't."

She shrugs and takes another long sip. "A girl's gotta try."

“Touché.” His expression grows more serious. “He mentions you sometimes. Not at group, but we talk after. He worries about you."

Karen stares at her mug. Her voice is mean. "That seems to be his thing."

"Is this really what you want to talk about?"

"No," she admits. "I don't want to argue with you. I guess I'm jealous that you get to see him. I thought we were..." she trails off. What they are isn't something she can put into words.

"Frank doesn't send cryptic postcards to strangers," Curtis points out.

"I told him I wanted an after for him, for when his war ends. I think this is his way of figuring things out."

"Well, damn. Look at you getting into his head."

It’s Karen’s turn for a long look. "I haven't seen him in months."

Curtis points at the postcard. "He’s listening to you all the same."

"He listens to you too. Maybe you could tell me about that stuff, the Frank you knew before...before the Punisher."

"It's still weird hearing him called that." He smiles in that way that lights up his face. "Where should I start?"

Curtis talks and Karen listens. He tells her about Iraq and losing his leg and how Frank always seemed to be there, in person or on the sat phone, while he learned to walk again. He tells her about the day the photograph was taken and the long tour they suffered through while Frank learned to play guitar. The Frank he tells her about is a stranger, but Karen can see parts of him in the Frank she knows.

The Frank she knows cares about the people that matter to him. The Frank she knows likes cheesy music. The Frank she knows understands what it means to love.

She notices Billy Russo is absent from his stories, Maria and the kids too. She thinks about asking, but no, that wouldn't be right. Frank's demons, they're not Curtis' stories to tell.

"You need to get that?" Curtis is talking about a drunken night back on base and Karen's phone won't stop buzzing. It must be distracting him.

She quickly checks the screen. Ellison keeps texting, wanting an update on her story. She guiltily ignores her closed laptop and the half-full bottle of whiskey on the counter.

"My editor is checking in on a story I'm writing." She glances at the laptop again. "Or not writing. I'm a little stuck."

"Can't figure out the angle?"

"More like the angle's too obvious. I know exactly what I want to say but I can't seem to get it on paper."

Curtis nods, forehead scrunching like he's thinking it over. "Maybe you're writing the wrong kinds of stories."

She glances up sharply. They've had a nice time this afternoon, but Curtis doesn't know her, not really. She's Karen Page, vigilante with a pen. Who is he criticize her work?

He must notice her expression, because he holds up his hands in supplication. "Hear me out. I sell insurance, okay? I know what it looks like when a pitch goes wrong. What are you writing about?"

She tells him about the fires and the insurance payouts and how history is repeating events from 1977. "The good guys and bad guys are literally in black and white. The story should be telling itself."

"And maybe that's the problem."

"What do you mean?"

Curtis leans forward, elbows on his knees. "You got your start writing about vigilantes, right? Who was the good guy there?"

All these months later, Karen's still asking herself that question. "Depends on the situation."

"Why should your other articles be any different? My job should be soul-sucking, but I make it something else." He taps his left shin. "I know what it's like to lose part of yourself and never get it back. So every time I make a sale, I come from that perspective. If this person lost a leg tomorrow, would the policy be enough? The question is, what's your red line?"

She thinks on it a minute. "I like when the little guy wins.”

Curtis salutes her with his mug. "Well, then. Now you know where the battle starts."

He takes off not long after – it's over an hour subway ride back to his place in Queens – but he leaves something behind. Karen keeps thinking about his advice. It was easier when she worked at Nelson & Murdock. She liked helping people, but she followed their lead, let them make the choices. Curtis is right – whatever story she tells, it needs to be her own.

She texts Ellison to leave her alone and writes long into the night. The story she submits isn’t the tale of greedy landlords taking advantage of needy tenants. She knows better than to decide what makes a victim.

The story she submits is about people trying to live honest lives and the forces beyond their control. She doesn’t give color to the bad guys – that’s not the tale she’s telling.

Ellison likes the story. He sends her a text and says so in person. He says it might be Pulitzer worthy, and she laughs at how ridiculous that is but accepts the praise. She did good but she also did right by herself. Next time an underdog walks through her door, she knows the kind of story she’ll write.

A few days later the sidewalks are clear and Karen’s walking Bruce during lunch again when she finds a small package in her mailbox. It’s wrapped in brown paper and tied in twine, sturdy but not particularly heavy.

It’s a book, with a short dedication inside the front cover scribbled in Curtis’ messy handwriting.

_I can’t tell you what I can’t tell you, but this might help._

That night, in bed with Bruce curled under one arm, she can’t put the book down. It’s stories of war and loss and fear and love. She thinks about Frank and the war he signed up for and the war that was forced upon him, and her heart aches and her eyes burn but that raw wound inside her stitches together.

It’s not her. It’s not even Maria or the kids. It’s Frank, and what he sees, and what he holds inside him, grief and anger and terror and war. Always war.

When he’s ready, when he’s done, in one form or another, she’ll be waiting.


	2. I just want something to hold on to

Karen keeps in touch with Curtis.

She thanks him for the book rec and sends him one of her own and they trade thoughts and ideas over email.

It's nice. She likes having someone to talk to, even if it’s only about books. Curtis doesn't ask about what happened with Lewis Wilson, but Karen can tell, if she asked, he'd listen.

"We carry our trauma in different ways," he writes in response to their discussion of the Parsley Massacre. “But there's a truth we all share: no matter where we go, it follows us."

Karen knows he's talking about more than the aftermath of war. She hears his message loud and clear. It's time to stop running.

 

* * *

 

It's not unusual to get random calls. Karen wasn't shy about giving out her number when she worked for Nelson & Murdock, and former clients often share it with friends in need. Even with a New Jersey area code, she doesn't hesitate to pick up.

"Hi, Karen?" It's a woman's voice, nervous and high-pitched. Karen tries to place the voice and fails.

"This is she."

"Uh, this is Sarah Lieberman." It takes Karen a few seconds to place the name. Sarah Lieberman – David Lieberman – "Micro's" wife. "David found your number." Sarah pauses. "I probably wasn't supposed to tell you that."

"Well, you did and here I am. What can I do for you?"

Sarah clears her throat. "I know we've never met, but would you want to get lunch sometime?"

The words come out in a rush and there's a note of desperation in her voice that rips open something inside Karen. Sarah has her husband back and her family is safe and yet, Karen can hear, clear through the cell connection, how alone she feels. Karen can relate. Even with Bruce's adoration, her apartment sometimes feels too big.

"Yeah. I'd like that a lot."

A few days later Karen meets Sarah at a West Village bistro. Cafe Cluny is a subway ride from her office and the prices are higher than she'd like to pay, but the date was Sarah's idea so she’d let her pick. She silently studies the menu while waiting for the awkwardness to dissipate.

"I hope this place is okay." Sarah Lieberman is beautiful, slim and willowy, with the fragile bones and straight posture of a dancer. Hers is a delicate beauty, but Karen sees the strength there too. It couldn’t have been easy making that call, confronting the past that’s caused her so much pain.

"I've never been here before."

"David and I lived in the city before we had kids. I used to come with my girlfriends for brunch." She smiles slightly, remembering old times. "It seemed like a good choice."

The waitress arrives before Karen can comment. Sarah orders a glass of wine and Karen does the same. It might be mid-day and work isn't over, but whatever Sarah wants to discuss, wine will make it go down smoother. The silence deepens while they wait.

"Do you have nightmares?" Sarah asks suddenly.

Karen does have nightmares. 

She's kneeling over Daniel Fisher's body and there’s blood on her hands, spreading like macabre rosebuds across James Wesley's chest. She can feel Lewis Wilson's heartbeat hammering wild and terrified in her ears.

Sometimes – the worst times – she sees Frank, blood on his face and his voice growling through the smoke and haze. "I will come for you."

Except he doesn't. She cuts the black wire, or Lewis loses patience, or a dark-haired woman appears. Every time, Frank makes a choice and it's not her.

Karen takes a sip of wine. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't."

“David thinks I drink too much.” As if to prove his point, Sarah drains half her glass in one swallow. “Maybe I do.”

"What do you think?"

"I think I watched my husband die twice in the same year." She takes another sip. "I think I'm allowed a little rebellion."

"So you're angry?"

Sarah’s fingers shake slightly. "I want to be, but mostly, I'm sad. I'm furious with David for lying, but when I think about why...what other choice did he have?"

Matt didn't die, but Karen thinks she understands Sarah's loss. When he'd told her the truth that day in his office, she didn't think she'd ever forgive him for lying to her, for keeping things from her, for refusing to trust that she could make her own decisions about the secrets she kept. She's not angry anymore. She still wishes he hadn't lied to her, but she sympathizes too. It must have been terribly lonely to carry that burden.

"It hurts, doesn't it? Knowing you're what's holding them back." Karen's not sure she's talking about Matt or Frank, but that she knows what it means to weigh on a man's conscience, to be the single thing driving every decision he makes.

"I think about those months David was alone, terrified any false move would mean our deaths." Sarah shivers. "Why do I feel guilty about something that isn't my fault?"

"Because we're women and it's what we do?"

The question hangs in the air for a long moment but then Sarah laughs, tension diffused. “Girl power really fucked us over, didn't it?"

Karen fist pumps the air. “Who runs the world, right?”

Their food arrives and the conversation pauses, neither of them wanting to spook the waitress.

“So how do you do it?”

Karen swallows a bite of salad. “Do what?”

Sarah gestures at Karen with her fork. “Keep it together? I read your columns in the “The Bulletin”. You’ve got a kick ass career. You don’t have to wear uniform to work. I’d say you’re doing well.”

Karen glances down at her pencil skirt and cardigan. “Is that what it looks like?”

“Isn’t it?”

“You should have seen me six weeks ago.”

“What happened six weeks ago?”

“I got a dog. She can be a pain in the ass, but she helps. I used to work until dawn because I didn’t want to be alone in my apartment. I still don’t, but it’s easier, knowing she’s there.”

Sarah hums. “I have two preteens and recently resurrected husband. A dog is the last thing we need.”

“You don’t need the dog. Those two kids and the formerly dead husband? They’re the reason you’re gonna get through this.”

Sarah blinks, then bursts into sharp laughter. It’s a real laugh, Karen can tell by the way her eyes crinkle and her mouth opens a little too wide. “Someone said something very similar to me once.”

She doesn’t have to say his name for Karen to know it was Frank. She knows he had a relationship with David Lieberman’s family while they were hunting the remnants of Project Cerberus. She pieced as much together, and Curtis filled in some of the gaps. She can easily imagine Frank, with his own dead spouse, helping Sarah deal with losing hers.

“And?”

“We’re still figuring it out.” She picks up her fork. “Why don’t you tell me more about that dog?”

Karen’s happy to talk about Bruce. She tells Sarah about her grumpy little face, and her general dislike for all things male, and how nice it is to slip under the covers each night and share her bed with someone else. 

“I didn’t get the chance to miss that. Leo used to creep into bed with me most nights.”

“Leo’s your son?”

Sarah smiles. “Daughter. We named her for David’s grandfather but never got around to feminizing the name. It suits her better anyway.”

“I’d like to hear more about her.”

Sarah’s smile widens. She tells Karen about Leo, the budding scientist, and Zach, the persistent brat. 

“Teenage boys are like that,” Karen points out. “Once, I told my brother that I loved him because we were related, but I didn’t particularly like him.”

“Did it ever change? I have a sister and that’s a whole different bag of crazy.”

“Yeah,” Karen says softly. “It got better once I was out of the house. I think we just needed our own space.” She doesn’t mention that the space is permanent. Sarah has enough on her plate – she doesn’t need Karen’s grief too.

“That’s good to hear. I keep thinking I’ll come home one day and one will have annoyed the other to death.” She winces. “Is it too soon to be making those kinds of jokes?”

Karen laughs. “A little morbid humor never hurt anyone. How else would we cope with all the crazy shit in our lives?”

Sarah laughs, louder this time, and then Karen laughs with her and it’s the kind of laughter that draws attention. The waitress and other diners look at them in distaste.

“They look pissed,” Sarah says and it somehow makes them laugh harder.

The conversation is easy after that. They finish their salads and flit from topic to topic, mostly discussing things of little importance. Karen doesn’t mind. Most of her conversations are mired in pain and regret. It’s a refreshing change of pace.

“This was nice,” Sarah says a little while later. They’re standing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, trying to figure out how to leave things. Karen hopes this isn’t their only outing.

“Would you want to do it again?” Karen asks. 

“Yeah, I would.” 

Karen smiles. “It’s a date.”

They meet for lunch the following week, albeit at a restaurant closer to Karen’s office, and again the week after that. It becomes a pattern, a habit, and one Karen looks forward to. A month passes and they spend an entire meal talking about anything and everything but the things that brought them together.

Karen goes back to the office feeling lighter than she has in months. Without even realizing it, she made a friend.

She texts Curtis a silly selfie they took earlier in the day. “I’m planting my roots,” she captains the photo.

He replies later that night, after she knows group has ended. “Next step: spread your wings.”

She’s smiling as she puts away her phone and snuggles Bruce close, a steady, solid warmth in her arms. She has her dog and her guide and now she has a friend. 

There’s a whole world waiting for her. She’s ready to take that leap.

 

* * *

 

Foggy surfaces soon after. 

There are a lot of excuses – his new job, Marci, Marci and his new job – but Karen doesn’t hold them against him. He wasn’t the only one that stopped trying. 

“Soooo…Marci’s throwing a dinner party on Saturday. I’m – we’re hoping you’ll come.”

She can’t remember the last party she attended, but she also wants to mend things with Foggy. She’s missed him and she wants to show him that she cares.

“Sure,” she says, hoping her voice sounds more confident than she feels. An entire night spent with Marci Stahl’s kind of people sounds like her personal hell.

“Great! I’ll send you the details.”

Karen doesn’t share Foggy’s enthusiasm as the week progresses. She’s nervous about seeing him, stressed about having to be around new people. She texts Sarah the day of, panicking about what to wear.

“Black dress, nice jewelry. It’s too cold to wear heels, so cute boots.” 

Karen follows her instructions and finds a black cocktail dress in the back of her closet and pairs it with the pearl necklace her parents gave her for high school graduation. She adds a pair of dangly earrings and a matching ring. Black tights and booties complete the look. She takes a full-length mirror selfie and sends it to Sarah. Once she gets a thumbs up emoji, she orders a Via and heads to the party.

Marci lives in a spacious loft in Tribeca, all minimalist furniture and expensive art. Karen takes it in while Foggy hangs up her coat. 

“Whiskey, on the rocks.” He smiles brightly when he returns with a glass in either hand. Karen takes hers. It’s heavy, likely real crystal. She briefly wonders what it’s like to have that kind of money.

Foggy clearly doesn’t. His watch probably cost as much as her rent. He looks good, happy and confident. Karen is glad for it. If anyone deserves to win, it’s Foggy.

They talk for a bit before dinner. Karen tells him about Bruce and makes him laugh with stories of their adventures together. He praises her work at the paper and talks about working pro-bono but taking home a fulltime salary.

“I feel guilty sometimes. Matt and I had such plans…” he trails off, watching her face. Karen’s careful not to give anything away. She still hasn’t figured out how she feels about Matt but now isn’t the right time to delve into it.

“But you’re doing good work, right?”

“Mostly. I don’t get to pick the clients, but it’s nice making rent every week.” He smiles up at her. “Unfortunately, my secretary isn’t nearly as talented.”

Karen laughs, surprised at how light it sounds. Her anxiety about the party melts away, even when Marci tears herself away from hostessing duties and comes by to say hello. She’s mellowed since Karen last saw her and the conversation is mostly pleasant, if not somewhat stilted.

Dinner is finally called and Karen is seated next to a dark haired, dark eyed man. 

At the head of the table, Foggy and Marci exchange a knowing look and Karen resists the urge to throw something at them. She’s over thirty and single – she should have known this was a set up.

She wants to get up and run, but none of this is her seatmate’s fault, so she gamely extends a hand. “I’m Karen.”

He smiles, revealing straight, white teeth. “Pete.”

Karen takes a closer look at him, noting the slightly crooked nose, the overall sense of features too roughly hewn to be truly handsome. She blinks, wondering if it’s all in her head, but he’s still there when she looks again.

“Everything okay?”

She’s not sure that it is, but it’s still the wrong place to take that particular trip down memory lane. There’s a cute guy smiling at her, sitting there right next to her. She needs to focus on the present.

A week after the shootout at the carousel, an envelope was left for her at “The Bulletin.” When she’d opened it in the privacy of Ben’s office, there had been a single piece of paper inside, a photocopy of a passport for a man named Pete Castiglione. She’d been so surprised to see Frank’s face with a different name that she almost missed the sentence he’d scribbled towards the bottom of the page.

_New name, new life._

The next time she heard from him was when Curtis delivered the postcard, but it had been enough for those few months, knowing he was alive. 

She straightens her features and plasters on a bright smile. “You remind me of someone is all.” 

Pete, this new Pete, smiles back. “Anyone good?”

“Let’s find out.”

 

* * *

 

Karen likes Pete. He’s kind and funny and refreshingly _normal_.

He calls when he says he will and never once cancels on her because he has “business” to take care of.

On their first date, he took her to Chelsea Pier and they hit balls in the batting cages for an hour. “We already did dinner and drinks,” he’d said. “I figure we’re at the activity date.”

Karen had never played baseball before, and she’d stared at him nervously, then knowingly as he curled his body around her, murmuring something about “helping her set up her swing.”

“You did this on purpose.”

He’d shrugged, his muscled chest sliding against her back. “Maybe a little. But your form really is terrible.”

She’d laughed and relaxed into it, only half paying attention to the instructions he was giving her. When was the last time a man had held her like this? In her apartment, the night she’d thrown herself at Frank. She gives herself more credit. She’d only hugged him, but it had taken him a few seconds to respond, and those few seconds often feel like the longest of her life. Pete hadn’t wanted to stop holding her, his big hands wrapped around hers as he helped her swing the bat so it connected with the ball. 

She’d gotten the hang of things after a few hits but she hadn’t told him to let go. Maybe it had made her selfish, or a silly girl, but she’d liked it. It had felt nice, being wanted. 

“So…give me details!” Sarah waggles her eyebrows above her wine glass.

It’s early March and Karen’s been dating Pete for about a month. Things are going well, she thinks. They’ve been out a few times and he’s a good kisser, although it’s barely gone farther than that. After Matt, she’s careful to keep her cards close to the vest. Slow is good. Slow means she’ll have time to spot the lies.

“What do you want to know?”

“I’ve been married fifteen years and share my house with two almost teenagers. Tell me everything.” There’s a sharp edge to Sarah’s voice that Karen files away to discuss later. 

Karen tells her most of the details, like that Pete is about her height with dark hair and dark eyes, that he works as a lawyer with Foggy and Marci. That he played lacrosse in high school and has a couple broken noses to show for it. That he’s funny and nice and makes silly dad jokes that should make her groan but mostly make her laugh. That he’s consistent, that he’s there. Oh, and his name is Pete.

“Oh, girl,” Sarah says a little drunkenly. They’re still waiting for their meals and she’s on her second glass of wine. “You know how to pick ‘em.”

“It’s not like that.”

“You sure? He sounds an awful lot like someone we both know.”

Sarah’s right, but not entirely. Karen already had this conversation with Bruce, late into the night after the dinner party, after Pete had gotten her number and proposed a date. She’d decided it was okay to proceed. Despite superficial similarities, Pete wasn’t Frank. He was never a marine, or shot in the head, or charged with murder. He didn’t have a dead wife and kids haunting his every move.

“I’m sure.” 

“Then I’m happy for you.”

“Everything okay with you?”

Sarah’s mouth trembles. “What am I doing, Karen?”

“Having lunch with me?” The joke falls flat. 

A lone tear slides down Sarah’s cheek. “The kids are back in school and David’s keeping busy. With what, I don’t know. I don’t think I want to know. And I’m just there, puttering around the house, trying to pretend that everything’s okay.” More tears fall. “I’m not okay.”

Karen reaches out and lays a hand over Sarah’s. She knows she can’t make it better, but she doesn’t want Sarah to feel alone. They sit there for long minutes while Sarah silently cries. Their waiter gives them a wide berth and the other patrons avert their eyes. 

“I don’t want to sound like I’m telling you what to do, but I think you should talk to someone. My friend Curtis runs a support group for returning vets. I’m not saying you should talk to him, but maybe he can point you in the right direction.”

Sarah stares at her, all wide eyes and beautiful, tear-streaked cheeks. “Yeah,” she says softly. Then, “Please.”

Curtis gives Sarah the info for a support group for people whose spouses are suffering from terminal illness. It’s not a perfect fit, but Sarah says the attendees feel the same anger and sadness that are consuming her life. She listens to them talk about the helpless frustration of watching a loved one die, and the burning rage for losing the long years together that were promised to them, and she feels less alone. She hasn’t spoken yet, but she listens, and so far it’s helping. 

Sarah doesn’t talk much about her progress, instead focusing on Karen’s progress with Pete. They’re sleeping together now and it’s…good. Not world shattering or life altering, but good. He’s patient and devoted and she can’t be annoyed with a man who doesn’t believe oral sex has to be reciprocal. Orgasms, ones she doesn’t have to provide for herself. That’s the stuff life is made of.

“We had dinner with Foggy and Marci last night.” 

“First double date. That’s a milestone in any relationship. Was it bad?”

“It probably would have been, but Foggy was there. He makes Marci tolerable.”

“Maybe I could meet him sometime?”

“Only if I can meet David first.” 

Sarah scrunches up her face, like she’s thinking through dates. “How about Sunday?”

Karen has brunch plans with Pete that morning – she’s meeting some of his law school friends – but she can be free that night. “What can I bring?”

Brunch is terrible. Because she has to drive that night, she only has one mimosa and it’s not enough liquid courage to keep up with Pete and his friends. They trade stories about law school and make jokes about their high-powered firms and the benefits they reap. Apparently, she hasn’t lived because she doesn’t summer in the Hamptons. They’re not mean or rude, but different, so different than the world she inhabits. They seem genuinely confused that she chose a job that pays so little, or that she worked as a legal secretary when she clearly has the mind to be a lawyer.

She’s exhausted when she pulls up in front of the Lieberman’s house, worn down by a morning spent sporting forced smiles and fake laughter. Sarah opens the door and she’s never been so happy to see a familiar face. 

“Everything okay?” Sarah asks after Karen launches herself into her friend’s arms.

“Wine. I need wine.”

“That I can definitely do.”

They have wine and Karen tells Sarah about brunch while David finishes dinner. The kids ran off after a brief introduction, but Karen can hear them banging around the house.

“What beautiful, beautiful music,” David says, stirring something on the stove.

Karen likes him. He’s interesting and funny but it’s his love for his family that stands out. He’s patient with the kids and tender with Sarah and despite his own year of turmoil, he’s the rock his family keeps trying to break themselves against. Sarah’s told her that Zach still struggles with his anger and that Leo’s quiet can be unnerving, but David is holding them together. 

Dinner is black bean soup and chicken enchiladas, with wine for the adults and water for the kids. 

“I’ve been told this an excellent Rioja,” David says, drawing out the last syllable in a way that makes the kids groan. 

A few months ago, it would have hurt, watching the easy camaraderie between the Liebermans. Karen’s own family is still fractured, but she has Sarah and Foggy and Curtis and Bruce. Her own little clan to laugh at her silly jokes and see through her bullshit. Today, it only makes her smile into her wine glass.

They talk about the kids’ days at school and then David mentions that they all know someone in common.

“How do you know Pete?” Leo looks at her curiously. 

Karen pauses in taking a bite of her enchilada. It takes her a few seconds to realize Leo isn’t talking about Pete Blazic, the man who might be her boyfriend, but Pete Castiglione, the man she knows better as Frank Castle.

“We know people in common,” she says. It’s not entirely untrue; she wouldn’t have met him if Matt hadn’t insisted on taking his case.

“So you’re his friend?”

“Yeah. I’m his…friend.”

“His special lady friend!?” Zach guffaws, laughing at his own joke.

Sarah sighs. “Someone went to a sleepover and watched a movie he wasn’t supposed to watch.” She stares down her nose at her son. “Apologize.”

“It was funny!”

Sarah turns to David help, but he looks like he's trying not to laugh. "I thought the rug really tied the room together." Sarah looks like she might kill him. "But, Zach, your mom is right. Karen's our guest. Let's treat her like it."

"Sorry." 

It's the most grudging apology Karen's received, but appropriate for a moody preteen. "Apology accepted."

Zach stabs at his enchilada while Leo hones in on Karen with a laser sharp gaze, peppering her with questions about Frank. Karen does her best to answer, no easy feat when most what she knows about him involves someone dying.

They have flan and coffee and then Sarah ushers the protesting kids to bed and Karen helps David with the dishes.

“Sorry about that,” David says. They’ve found an easy rhythm of David washing and Karen drying, but neither has spoken until then. 

“About what?” Karen tries to play dumb even when the answer is obvious.

“Leo’s a curious kid. We should have warned you that the Inquisition was up and running again in New Jersey.”

She laughs. “She’s a lot like me at that age. I think I gave my parents premature grey hair from all the questions.”

David chuckles and hands her a pot. “And what Zach said about Frank, what did you think about that?”

Karen thinks a lot of things. She thinks that her cheeks are turning bright red and her chest feels heavy with guilt because she has sweet, funny Pete and why isn’t he enough? 

David turns off the water. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but you seem like the kind of person that likes to have all the information. When Lewis Wilson was terrorizing the city, Frank kind of lost his mind. We were listening to you on the radio and when Lewis threatened you…he said you’re his family, like Sarah’s my family, like nothing would stop him from keeping you safe. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

There’s a ringing in her ears and dust in her hair. Every part of her body hurts, down to the bone. There’s smoke in the air and so much pressure in her chest that she can barely breathe, but there’s a hand on her cheek, calloused and tough, but so, so gentle. It anchors her, reminds her that she’s alive, that she’s not alone, that someone loves her.

“Yeah,” she says softly, staring at the pot in her hands like it’s the most interesting thing she’s ever seen. “I understand.”

They go back to washing and drying, but Karen leaves not long after. It’s late and she’s had a long day. Sarah watches her suspiciously but doesn’t press the issue. On the drive home, Karen grips the steering wheel so tight her knuckles bleach white.

She wishes she wasn’t so obvious. She _is_ the kind of girl that likes to have all the facts. Karen Page, intrepid reporter. Except in this one instance, she wishes she’d been left in the dark. She doesn’t know what to do with the information, or what it means, and the one person that could provide answers is nowhere to be found.

When she gets home, Bruce is waiting for her, an envelope clenched in her little mouth. Karen doesn't think her apartment was broken into – her mail sometimes goes to the wrong apartment and her neighbor sticks it under the door – but it never hurts to check. She does a quick sweep just in case, her .380 clasped in her hand as she checks windows and closets and even behind her shower curtain. Satisfied, she curls up on the couch with a mug of black coffee and looks at her letter, Bruce drooling in her lap.

There’s a photo inside, a beach scene of a dark-haired man staring out at the ocean. Karen doesn’t have to see his face to know that it’s Frank. 

She turns over the photograph and finds something written there. 

_“With all the changing seasons of my life_  
_Maybe I’ll get it right next time”_

It feels like a sign. 

He took a bullet for her. She thought it meant something. Now she knows that it does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the wonderful support I’m so glad you’re enjoying the fic, and I appreciate the comments!
> 
> Housekeeping for this chapter:
> 
>   * the book Curtis and Karen are reading at the beginning of the chapter is another of my faves, Edwidge Dandicat’s _The Farming of Bones_
>   * Zach and David quote “The Big Lebowski” during the dinner scene 
>   * Frank includes lyrics from Guns N’Roses “Estranged” in his note
> 



	3. I just want you in my arms

Winter fades. 

It’s late spring and the window is open, a hint of rain catching in the breeze. Karen breathes in deep, letting the clean air fill her lungs. It reminds her a bit of Vermont, of the things she wants to remember, not the parts that turn memory into regret. She knows too well the lingering ache of regret. 

She spends a lazy Saturday in bed with Pete, reading while he checks his fantasy scores. She turns the page and Bruce, ever suspicious, looks up from where she’s wedged between them. At best, Bruce tolerates Pete. She’ll let him feed her if she’s hungry enough, or take her out rather than suffer an accident, but she doesn’t allow more. 

"She's a little protective," Karen had said the first time she had Pete over. All she’d done was use the bathroom and Bruce had insisted on sitting sentry outside the door, growling when Pete had tried to pet her.

"Good," Pete had replied. "I'm glad you're not alone here."

It was the kind of thing Frank might have said, patronizing but well intentioned, and like the night they met, Karen had stood there a long second and blinked.

Pete had waved a hand in front of her face. "Karen, you with me?"

She'd scooped Bruce up and cuddled her to her chest. "Of course."

She's still with him, although nothing is official, if people in their thirties even use those terms anymore, but the magic has waned. She likes Pete, she knows that much, but she’s stuck. She likes him and respects him but she can't seem to make herself to feel more.

"It's not fair to him," says the voice in her head. "Do the right thing."

"I'm tired of doing the right thing," she says in return and mulishly turns the page.

“Keeping him isn’t going to bring Frank back.”

That stops her in her tracks. It’s only when she’s at her lowest, when she’s strung out on too much work or not enough sleep, when her insides feel raw and it hurts just to keep her eyes open. It’s only in those moments that she’s honest with herself, that she can admit that she’s waiting for her heart to come home.

She tosses the book aside and closes her eyes. The mattress dips as Pete turns to her, one strong forearm creeping across her stomach. “Everything okay, babe?”

She curls deeper into him, so very grateful to have him in her life. But gratitude isn’t love and she knows from experience how easily it can mutate into resentment. She often wonders if Matt’s lies wouldn’t have hurt so much if she hadn’t felt so indebted to him for saving her life.

Being saved…a theme from her former life. It reminds her of a passage in her book, a paragraph she read again and again, the words failing to take root. Birds in a cage, a whisper of freedom, the weight of wings. Finally, they’re sinking in. She needs to be brave, but she’s tired. She doesn’t know if she can be.

"Do me a favor?”

"Anything.”

"Will you check my back?"

Pete’s forehead crinkles with confusion, but he does as she asks. "What am I looking for?” His hands knead across her shoulder blades, knuckles digging into a particularly tight knot.

“Am I strong?” she whispers. “Do you think I could fly?”

He nuzzles into the nape of her neck, laughing softly at the joke he doesn’t get. “I think you can do anything you want.”

Karen forces a laugh, eyes closed to keep the tears at bay. "Thanks," she says and pushes up on her elbows so she can kiss him.

It tastes like goodbye.

 

* * *

 

“I think I need to break up with Pete.”

Sarah pauses in taking a sip of water. She’s been doing that a lot lately, choosing water over wine. Karen’s glad for it. Sarah’s eyes are a little brighter, her smile less brittle. She’ll miss her drinking buddy, but she even more, she wants Sarah to be healthy.

“Is this about what David said?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Karen isn’t surprised that Sarah was privy to David’s confession. They’re a married couple – secrets aren’t supposed to exist between them, more so after the year they had. But it still hurts that Sarah didn’t tell her. 

They don’t talk about Frank much, but it’s no secret that Karen’s feelings for him are complicated. It’s the kind of thing one girlfriend should tell another.

“Are you mad at me?”

“I’m confused. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Sarah is quiet a moment, her expression tentative. “For a long time, I didn’t know, and things seemed to be going so well with Pete…I didn’t want to be that friend, you know? The one that tries to tell you how to run your own relationship? You were happy and that was what mattered.” She pauses to study Karen’s face. “You are happy.”

She says it like a statement but the question hangs in the air. Karen sighs. “I’m not _un_ happy, but after four months, I should feel more. On paper he's perfect, but when I'm with him...he's just kinda there."

“Ouch.”

Karen slumps in misery. “Yeah.”

“So what’s stopping you?”

It’s not a fear of being alone. Karen’s been alone most of her adult life, even when there were people right beside her. She knows how to carve out a nice life for herself. She’s always prided herself on that ability, to find meaning and purpose in the drag of days upon days that never seem to change. It’s not a fear of being alone; it’s the opposite.

“I don’t want to be the girl that waits.” She studies the hands she’s wringing together in her lap, unwilling to meet Sarah’s sympathetic eyes. She feels so incredibly pathetic, admitting that she’s spent months pining after a man who can’t be bothered to do more than send a stupid postcard.

“Karen,” Sarah says softly, then sharper. “ _Karen_.”

She looks up, but Sarah’s expression isn’t pitying. She looks determined and confident, like she knows exactly what she wants to say. “You are not that girl, but he’s not the right guy.”

“Maybe he could be, if I let myself…”

Sarah shakes her head. “All that “getting over you” stuff is a myth. You never “get over” someone – you find something better with someone else. David and I have been together since college, but there was a guy before him. When we started dating, I thought about him sometimes, mostly when David did something that annoyed me and I remembered that the other guy didn’t. But time went on and all the good things David did outweighed the bad and there was never a reason to think about anyone else.” She smiles, a little smug in that way married people get, but Karen isn’t annoyed like she usually would be. She appreciates the wisdom in what Sarah is saying. She came here so lost and confused and Sarah’s laying down a path, a way out of the mess she’s made. “If it doesn’t feel right, then it’s wrong. Don’t waste your time, or especially his, because you’re afraid.”

Karen nods, more than a little teary. “Okay.”

“You can call me any time.”

“Okay.”

Sarah bites her lip, suddenly looking very guilty. “This is probably a good time to tell you that I kissed Frank, right?”

It takes Karen a minute to find her voice. “How long have you been sitting on that one?”

“I really didn’t know how to tell you.” Sarah’s face flushes, her expression mortified. “It was before I knew David was still alive. He was there and he was kind and I’d been drinking. It lasted about two seconds and is easily the most embarrassing moment of my life.” She buries her face in her hands. “I ruined everything, didn’t I? You’re never going to speak to me again.”

“Not _everything_.” Karen isn’t thrilled about more secrets, but she can sympathize with Sarah’s choice. If the roles were reversed, would she have risked ruining their friendship?

“Can we stop keeping things from each other?”

“Yes,” Sarah says, voice high-pitched with desperation. “Yes, yes, yes.”

“I need you do something for me first.”

“Whatever you want.”

Karen leans forward a little. “So what was it like?”

Sarah’s voice is curious. “What do you want to know?”

Karen can’t quite hide her grin. “Everything.”

Later, alone in her apartment, Karen will wish she hadn’t asked.

“Soft,” Sarah had said when Karen asked how Frank’s mouth had felt against hers. “Hard,” she’d added when Karen wanted to know what it felt like to press up against him.

“And did you like it?”

“Yes,” Sarah had whispered, cheeks flaming red at the memory.

Karen knows that Sarah loves her husband, knows she’s happy with him too. But she also knows what it’s like to fall into Frank Castle’s dark, dark eyes and never want to climb out.

She can still feel their skin touching, hot and sticky with blood, the hard bones of Frank’s brow resting against hers. She can see the tears in his eyes and the way his mouth trembled, hovering just an inch or so from her own.

His mouth…his mouth.

She ignores Bruce yapping at her ankles and walks straight into the shower, leaving a trail of clothes across the living room floor. The water is hot and the tile is cold, but it does little to ease the tightness of her skin, the steady hum of desire in her veins.

A brush of skin. A gun scraping the underside of her chin. Blood and chrome.

Her fingers are skilled, but it’s not enough. She doesn’t want to imagine what it will be like – she wants to know. She takes what Sarah gave her and runs with it.

A hard man with big hands and a soft mouth. Thick hair that curls slightly at his nape. A man that kills and loves in equal measure.

She cries out, her body singing.

Bruce is waiting when she climbs into bed. She nuzzles Karen’s cheek, her nose cold and wet against Karen’s still sensitive skin. She feels sated, but also empty, and more than a little guilty.

She knows too, what she has to do.

 

* * *

 

Karen doesn’t waste any time.

She invites Pete over the next night and tells him she doesn’t think they should see each other anymore. She doesn’t use trite lines like, “it’s not you, it’s me,” even though they’re true. She explains that she cares about him, but she doesn’t see things moving forward. She says, in her own way, that she cares but not enough.

He sits quietly on her couch, processing what she’s saying. “Is there someone else? Foggy mentioned a guy…” Pete trails off, staring blankly at his feet.

For a moment, Karen loses her breath, her heart hammering in her chest. She knows Foggy isn’t Frank’s biggest fan but he wouldn’t – he _couldn’t_ – do something so stupid, so cruel…

“ – someone you used to work with?”

The air returns to her lungs, rushing out in deep, strangled breath. Matt, he’s talking about Matt. Of course Foggy would think she’s still hung up on him.

Considering the turmoil of the last few months, the absurdity of it almost makes her laugh. Whatever she felt for Matt has been dead a long time.

“No,” she says softly. “There’s no one else.”

It’s not entirely the true, but it’s no lie either. If Frank came back tomorrow, Karen doesn’t think she’d turn him away, but weeks or months down the line, she’s not so sure. She wants him, yes, but more than him she wants someone to fill the endless, echoing loneliness inside her. That man might not be Pete, but it doesn’t have to be Frank either. Not unless he hurries up.

Pete nods, eyes a little glassy, and leans forward to kiss her forehead. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

Karen’s a little teary herself. He’s a nice man – a good man – and she doesn’t like hurting him. “I’ll see you around.”

She holds Bruce tight as she watches Pete walk out of her life, biting her lip to keep from crying. Breaking up with him is the right thing to do, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. She’s still drying her tears in Bruce’s fur when she calls Sarah.

“Come for dinner,” Sarah says. “It’ll be a good distraction.”

“Thank you,” Karen whispers. In times of crisis, people surround themselves with loved ones. She adores Bruce, but it’s not the same. She wants a connection, a human connection, to replace the one she severed.

Still, she brings Bruce with her to the Liebermans and sits on their couch watching Leo scratch her belly. Bruce rolls around in ecstasy, never one to turn down attention. Sarah hands Karen a glass of wine and curls up next to her.

“Are we okay?”

Karen lets her head rest on Sarah’s shoulder, suddenly choked up again. She’d forgotten how good, how comforting and accepting it is, to have a friend. “We’re fine. I feel like shit.”

Sarah pats her hand. “It will get better.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure. And if not, I have another bottle of chardonnay.”

Karen laughs and sips her wine. “I’m really glad we became friends.”

Sarah rests her head on top of Karen’s. “I am too.”

Zach stomps in. “Why can’t I watch TV?”

“We have company.” Sarah gestures at Karen. “You know the rules.”

“Whatever.” Zach scowls and joins his sister on the floor. Bruce sniffs at him curiously, grudgingly letting him pet her.

The women exchange smiles that turn into full-bodied laughs and Zach’s scowl deepens. David joins them, all six feet something of him, with a flowered apron around his waist, and he looks so silly that they laugh harder.

Karen feels something soft and warm bloom in her chest. It’s even better than having a girlfriend – it feels a lot like family.

 

* * *

 

Once is an accident, twice a coincidence. Three times is a conspiracy. Karen’s hand slides into her purse, fingers grasping the handle of her .380 as Dinah Madani jogs past her apartment for the third time that week. “You lost, Agent Madani?”

Madani skids a little on the pavement, seemingly surprised to have been caught. Which is ridiculous when her Upper East Side upbringing oozes out of her pores and she’s currently standing in front of Karen’s Hell's Kitchen walk up.

"Just going for a run." She taps the scar on her temple. "Trying to get back on my feet."

Karen doesn't like doubting a woman recovering from a gunshot wound to the head, but she's not stupid. It's not by chance that Madani decided to go for a run, during Karen's lunch break, on the other side of the city. She crosses her arms over her chest and raises her eyebrows. "Really."

Madani sighs. "Fine. Billy Russo woke up from his coma."

Summer temperatures have arrived, but Karen shivers in her tank dress and sandals. She grasps Bruce’s leash a little tighter.

A few weeks after the showdown at the carousel, the DHS had called her in for a meeting. Madani had been absent, but the other agents had filled Karen in on the aftermath. They told her that Billy Russo had a vendetta against Frank and everyone in his sphere, and that he saw, the day of Lewis Wilson’s rampage, how Frank almost brought a building down to get to her. She learned that Russo was in a coma and that they didn’t think he’d wake up.

“This is classified information, Ms. Page, but we still feel that you should be aware.” The agent, an older man, fixed her with an intense stare. “You understand that this meeting never happened, yes?”

Karen didn’t think much about it in the ensuring months. She understood what a coma meant, and anyway, Russo was in DHS custody. Out of sight, out of mind. But now he’s awake and a trickle of doubt slithers down her spine. She’s no stranger to conspiracies, or men with nine lives. She knows that when there’s a will, there’s a way.

"You think he's going to come after me." Karen’s fist tightens around Bruce's leash.

Madani shrugs. "He’s in shackles and looks like something out of "The Twilight Zone," but you should know."

Karen peers down at her. There's something shifty in the way Madani won't look her directly in the eye. "Your boss doesn't know you're here, does he?" Madani shrugs again and Karen sighs. "Frank sent you."

"He was worried. I said I'd check in."

"I wish he'd talk to me instead of everyone else." Karen's jaw clenches, all traces of fear gone. Now she's just angry.

She sucks in a long breath and exhales, gets her feelings under control. Madani did a good thing and she deserves acknowledgement. "Well, thanks.” She sounds pleasant enough, but for whatever reason, Madani doesn’t leave and Karen finds herself increasingly annoyed. This is her lunch break and it's over 90 degrees outside. Sweating through more small talk with Madani is about the last thing she wants to be doing.

She turns on her heel to finish Bruce’s walk, but Madani’s words stop her mid-stride. “You carrying, Karen?”

Karen glares at her. She’s hot and tired and sick of this conversation. She appreciates Madani’s warning about Billy Russo, but she’s in no mood for a shake down. She committed no crime and hasn’t given Madani any reason to doubt her. She’s not sticking around to keep this conversation going.

“I’m fully licensed and known to the NYPD. My paperwork’s on file. Feel free to check.”

“You know how to use it?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No, I thought…” Madani trails off, studying her sneakers. “I could really use a distraction.”

Karen sighs, the fight slipping away. It’s hard to stay annoyed with someone looking so pathetic. “Just tell me what you want, Madani.”

“I was thinking I’d treat you to a session at the shooting range.” She kicks at the ground again. “It’s the least I can do.”

Karen’s not so sure. Madani owes her an apology, more than one, but the woman’s stubborn, like Karen herself, and she might find herself waiting for an admission of guilt that never comes. And she’s so, so tired of waiting.

Plus, it never hurts to get in more target practice. “Sure. Why not?”

She takes a few extra minutes to finish Bruce’s walk and take her upstairs, and then they’re heading out of the city in Madani’s sensible sedan.

They don’t say much on the drive into Westchester. Madani has the radio turned to a Top 40 station and some of the songs are familiar thanks to the spin classes Karen tries to attend twice a week.

“This is the dumbest song ever written.” It manages to rhyme Range Rover and shoulder and roommate in Boulder. It’s so bad it makes Karen’s teeth hurt.

Madani changes the station and a new voice fills the car, big and throaty, with an almighty howl.

_“Feed my eyes, can you sew them shut?”_

“At the risk of dating myself, but music these days…” Madani’s mouth quirks with the hint of a smile. “Crap. It’s all crap.”

Karen laughs. “My dad used to say the same thing. I grew up a house that played only Motown.” She shrugs. “It could have been worse.”

“My parents left Iran during the Revolution and brought their music with them. My father prays five times a day, abstains from alcohol and keeps strict halal, but he listens to Led Zeppelin.” She turns onto a tree-lined drive. “I learned early that life is but a series of contradictions.”

“Yeah, I guess it is.” Karen settles back in her seat, thinking of the man that brought them together, a mass murderer with a gentle touch and broken heart. She wishes Frank didn’t suffer, but she can’t imagine him any other way. She thinks of the heat in his eyes that day in the elevator. No, she wants him as is.

They park in front of the shooting range and show their ids to the man behind the counter. Less than ten minutes later, Karen is wearing thick headphones and watching Madani empty her gun’s cartridge with practiced ease.

“Everything okay?” All Madani’s shots followed the same path, clean through what used to be the target’s forehead. Karen hasn’t even turned off the safety on her gun.

"Did you know that American women are 11 times more likely to be murdered by a firearm than women in any other developed country?"

Karen nods. She didn't know that exact statistic, but she had a general idea. They don't talk often, but her mom has been sending her articles and chain emails since her freshman year of college. She was barely eighteen the first time she walked home with her keys clenched in her fist.

"So you also know the importance of defending yourself." Madani gestures at Karen's gun. "Take off the safety, Ms. Page. Show me what you can do."

The pistol is heavier than her .380 and it takes Karen a few seconds to get a feel for it. Madani's eyes bore into her but her hands are steady when she clicks off the safety and lines up the muzzle with the target.

Her aim isn’t as accurate as Madani's and her fury more contained, but all her shots hit the target. It's a decent showing. Not her best, but good enough.

Madani disagrees. She studies Karen's target with a critical eye. "Only two of those are head shots, and neither of them fatal. You want to end up on the evening news, another pretty white lady whose entire life is summed up by a tragic headline?"

"No."

"Then you'd better learn to kill or be killed." Madani punches the recall button with a frustrated snap, a new target sliding into place.

Karen swallows hard. Somewhere in her head, she can hear James Wesley laughing at her. She _knows_ what it's like to kill. But she also knows the fear, remembers the first time, the second time, every time some man put a gun to her head. Never again.

"I'm ready," Karen says. She raises her arms and holds the gun steady, keeps her eyes trained on the spot right between her target's eyes. She's no one's victim.

It takes a few tries, but eventually Karen lands all head shots. Only one or two are clean, but they're good enough for Madani. She nods briskly, and Karen lowers her aching arms.

"How do you feel?" Madani asks on the walk back to the car. Karen's trying to work the kinks out of her biceps, curling one arm in front of her and stretching it with the other.

"Sore."

"But how else do you feel?"

Madoni’s eyes are dark and fathomless in the early evening light, but Karen sees something familiar there. The need to fight and protect – for a moment it's like looking at Frank. He'd want her to feel safe, to _be_ safe when he can't be there with her. But she sees more – the blood on his hands, the guilt in his heart – the things he'd kill and rage and die to keep from her. Except he's not here with her and she's never been one to let someone else do the rescuing. Madani has given her the tools – it's up to her to do the rest.

"I feel strong," she finally says. "I feel safe." She climbs into the car and shuts the door, tucking her tote bag between her feet, the .380 hidden beneath her wallet and makeup bag. "I hope I never have to use it."

"I hope so too."

There's an awkward moment when Madani drops Karen off in front of her apartment. She doesn't say anything, but Karen can sense it, how badly Madani doesn't want to be alone. She should know; she's felt the same loneliness half her life.

She takes a chance and pokes her head through the open passenger side door. "I need to take the dog for a quick walk, but would you wanna get a drink after?"

Madani tries to hide it, but for Karen it's a bit like looking in the mirror, hiding the relief she used to feel when someone, anyone, gave her a chance. "I'll park the car, meet you back here in ten?"

"Sounds good."

Out of habit, Karen takes her to Josie's. "So, Madani," She starts. They're sitting awkwardly at the bar, nursing cool beers that are helping to alleviate the sticky heat but doing little to get the conversation going. Karen decides to dive right in for lack of other options. “You wanna tell me why you took me shooting today?”

"Dinah, my name is Dinah." She glances at her watch. "I'm off-duty. Let's keep Agent Madani out of it."

Karen holds up her beer. "I'll drink to that."

Dinah clinks, even smiles a little. "How about we keep the shop talk to a minimum?"

"I'll drink to that too."

To Karen's surprise, they find things to talk about. It's not a natural fit like her first lunch with Sarah, but they like the same movies and books, and when she's feeling especially brave, she calls back to her Union Allied days and they spend a long while discussing what it's like to be the only woman in a sea of men.

It's not until much later, after they've moved onto the cheap whiskey, that Dinah reveals her true intentions.

Her hair is disheveled, falling over her forehead in messy curls that hide the scar on her temple. She stares into her drink, holding it loosely between tightly clenched fingers.

"I had a partner, you know."

Karen nods along, unsure of where this is going. Only a few seconds earlier, they'd been talking about sexist college professors and now Dinah's staring at her with hard, glassy eyes. "He died." Dinah laughs, harsh and ugly, and down the rest of her drink in one gulp. "Correction: Billy Russo killed him."

Sarah had told her once over a particularly boozy lunch, about the day Anvil Security kidnapped her and Zach and strapped gasoline to their backs, flames licking at their heels as they ran for their lives. Karen knew people died that day, but she hadn't known the specifics. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Dinah signals for another drink. It loosens her lips as well. "Sam was a good kid, not so much younger than me, but so new he practically bled green." Her hand trembles slightly as she brings the glass to her mouth. "He was there one minute and gone the next." Her snap is a sharp crack, even in the crowded bar. "The last thing he heard was me screaming for help. " She pushes away the drink. "I liked him fine, but I wasn't his family. I'm not sure I was even his friend, not really, and the last thing he ever saw was my face."

Slowly, so not to spook her, Karen reaches over to lay her hand on Dinah's wrist. "At least he wasn't alone."

Dinah shakes her off violently, her half-empty glass skittering down the bar. "He might as well have been." Her face twists, a mixture of anger and self-hate, such a potent mix that Karen almost recoils. Karen doesn't know Dinah well, but her initial impressions were of a tightly coiled spring, full of fury and frustration but contained, even if barely. Maybe it was Russo's awakening, or the whiskey, or maybe Dinah just reached a breaking point, but there doesn't seem to be a way to hold back the tide. "That night, I let Billy Russo take me home, the home where I grew up. I let him strip me bare and wash the blood from my face. Sam's blood." She blinks rapidly, but can't stem the tears. "He killed my partner and I spent the night in his arms. Who needs a horse when I opened the gate willingly?"

"Wow. I wasn't expecting a Classics reference this late in the evening."

"It takes more than a boxy pantsuit to get the Upper East Side out of this girl."

The mood changes, grows serious. "Whatever happened, you shouldn't blame yourself."

Dinah's expression is incredulous. "I slept with the man that killed my partner on the night he died. I let him comfort me, hold me..." She trails off, her voice cracking. "I thought I was in love with him."

And there's the kicker, the reason for Dinah’s rage. It's not anger, but shame. It's not that Billy Russo lied to her or even that he killed her partner. It's that he used her – manipulated her – and that's the sin she can't forgive. The circumstances are different, but Karen can still relate. She remembers the revulsion she felt the night Matt told her the truth, not for him but for herself. She'd looked at him through those mooning blue eyes and he'd used it to his advantage, knowing she'd believe whatever lie he threw her way. Even finding a half-naked woman in his bed hadn't been enough to erode her trust. It's humiliating, even more so when she sees it reflected back in Dinah's face.

"Well, you know what they say: fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me."

Dinah scoffs. "Russo's living sixty feet underground. He'll never see sunlight again let alone come near me."

Karen thinks back to Matt and his odd disappearances, the flimsy excuses from Foggy that she let slide. Back then she couldn't see it, but not anymore. Never again, is a man going to take advantage of her. "There's always going to be another Billy Russo. Maybe not that exact pretty face, but the ugliness beneath. Next time, you'll be ready."

"And yet, you're the one tangled up in Frank Castle."

Dinah says it like an insult, but Karen takes it as a truth. She raises her chin proudly. "He doesn't lie to me," she says softly. "Whatever Frank is, whoever he choose to be, he lets me decide if it's too much. When you looked into Billy's eyes, what did you see?"

"Shadows. Lies." Dinah shakes her head in frustration. "I thought I liked the game, until the game got someone killed." Her voice fades to a whisper and she rakes a hand through her hair, rubbing at the scar on her temple. "The game almost got me killed."

"And now you have a reminder to keep from getting in too deep." Karen taps her chest, right over her heart. "You can't see mine, but that doesn't mean it isn't there." She brings to mind Matt's handsome face and kind eyes, the sweet smile that kept her from seeing the secrets he kept. "Figure out what you want, Dinah. Hold on and use two hands. Don’t let go."

"Is that what you're doing? Refusing to let go?" Dinah's gaze is both accusing and patronizing, her message clear. Karen has become that girl, the one that waits and doesn't know how to stop.

Except that's not it, not really. A few seconds pass and Karen's back in the diner, Frank sitting across from her with a ball cap pulled low to hide the intensity burning in his dark eyes. That night they'd been talking about Matt, but not, because Karen knows better now than she knew then, that whatever she felt for him wasn't love. She liked him and cared about him, but love? The cold hand clamping around her heart at the thought of never seeing Frank again squeezes a little tighter. No, whatever she felt for Matt Murdock wasn't love, but Frank wasn't entirely wrong either. The issue then was Matt and it still is.

"You're not the only one to get stupid over a man." She tips up her chin to look Madani square in the eye. "I trusted someone and he used it against me. My story is different than yours but the result was the same.” She pauses to catch her breath, suddenly on the verge of tears. “I let him have everything and he couldn’t give anything in return.”

Dinah studies her for a long moment before raising her empty glass. "To making smarter choices."

"Better choices," Karen corrects but clinks anyway, finishing off the watery remnants of her whiskey.

Madani looks at her through bleary eyes. "Why did ask me here tonight?"

"You warned me about Billy Russo. Goods in kind.”

She looks skeptical. "I know you don't like me. You didn't have to do this."

Karen sighs, an all too familiar voice knocking around in her head. Maybe it's the liquor lowing her inhibitions, but she can't avoid being honest with herself. Lies, even the kindest ones, still have a way of cutting deep.

"Someone once told me that I'm all heart. You looked like you needed someone to talk to. I think I did too."

"Well, thanks." Dinah unhooks her purse and signals Josie for the check. "Drinks are on me."

Karen starts to protest, because it doesn't make sense to keep one upping each other for favors, but Madani counters with another offer. "Do you run?"

The non-sequiturs are dizzying but Karen does her best to keep up. "Huh?"

"I'm running the New York Marathon," Madani says evenly while scanning the bill. Her ability to multi-task is impressive, especially after so much whiskey. Watching her doing mental calculations makes Karen’s head hurt. "I could use a training partner." Shock or horror must show on Karen's face, because Madani quickly qualifies the offer. "Think about it. You know where to find me when you decide."

"I’m in." Maybe it's the liquor talking again, but Karen wants to do it. She's not particularly keen on running 26.2 miles, but she likes the idea of training for something, of achieving something that's just hers: no boss, no clients, no leads or sources or vigilantes driving back the night. If she finishes the race, it will because she wanted it and nothing more.

"Okay," Madani says brightly, smiling for the first time all evening. It's at odds with her otherwise stern face, but no less real. Karen feels a bit of selfish pride. Helping others – it never gets old.

Dinah insists on walking Karen the few blocks back to her apartment, and Karen insists on waiting until Madani hails a cab, and in the intervening minutes they exchange numbers and plan to go running that weekend. When the taxi pulls up, they don't hug goodbye. Dinah nods curtly and Karen waves a little drunkenly but it doesn't feel weird or awkward. They don't have to be friends to have a connection. Training partners, drinking buddies...it sounds nice.

It's well past midnight when she stumbles into her apartment, and another half an hour before she walks Bruce, washes her face, and brushes her teeth. Her head aches the next morning and the very thought of food makes her want to hurl, but she feels good. Settled. Committed. _Determined_.

She calls Ellison while sipping a cup of black coffee and tells him that she isn't coming in. "Take the rest of the week," he says and hangs up before she can protest. It's already Thursday so not much of a gift, but Karen has a plan and if it all blows up spectacularly, she could use the time to lick her wounds.

A cool shower and some Aleve help with the pounding in her skull and she chokes down a few piece of toast to settle her stomach. She has a big day ahead of her and needs her strength. Much of the previous evening is a blur, but some things stuck with her: Billy Russo's triumphant return, target practice and bad whiskey, coming to terms with her feelings for Matt. There's untangling her feelings for Frank too, but one thing at a time. Matt is here, in New York, and she'll deal with him first.

It's been months since Foggy went out on his own, but the sign still reads Nelson & Murdock. Seeing it makes Karen smile, remembering the good times she had in the office's sun-soaked rooms. The door is unlocked and the interior is the same, second hand furniture and dusty books and the faint smell of stale coffee and Thai takeout. It feels warm and familiar and for a moment Karen doubts herself. She liked it here, found a family here, thought she could have a future here.

"Hi Karen."

She looks up from her reverie to find Matt watching her. It never fails to unnerve her, how clearly he sees her when he can't see anything at all. "Hey Matt."

He smiles, that slightly dopey smile that used to make her heart race. He knew it too, every single thing she felt, just from the beat of her heart. It makes her resentful now, knowing how much he knew of her when he gave so little of himself. She crosses her arms over her chest and straightens her spine. Armor, the only kind she has.

"Taking a trip down memory lane?"

His voice is neutral, but sometimes Karen hears the way he sees, and she isn’t buying his calm. "Do you have a minute? I was hoping we could talk."

They're alone in the office and he gestures for her to sit in the empty waiting room. He takes a seat opposite hers and she can't shake the feeling that he's watching her. It will probably never not be disconcerting. "I assume you aren't here for legal advice."

She shakes her head. "I wish it was that simple."

"How have you been?"

"You don't get to do that." She sucks in a breath to calm down, annoyed that Matt can hear her heart racing. It's still not fair.

"Karen..." he starts and there's something about the soothing, placating tone of his voice that sets her off.

Suddenly, she doesn't care if he can hear the angry thump of her heart or the quickness of her breathing. She needs to get this off her chest. "You lied to me for months."

"It was for your own protection – "

"You don't get to do that either!" She pushes to her feet, pacing around the small room. She feels like she might explode if she doesn't move. "You saved my life, Matt, and I will always be grateful for that, but not the rest. You knew I'd do anything for you and you used it against me."

Matt's quiet a long moment, so long Karen thinks he's not going to respond, and when he does his voice is soft but sharp. "It wasn't about you," he finally says. "I trusted you to keep my secret."

"Then why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I didn't want to put that on you! Remember how we met? You were charged with murder, caught up in a conspiracy that almost got you killed."

Tears well at the memory of those terrifying weeks when she thought every day might be her last. "You don't get to make that decision –"

"I'm sorry," he says softly. "I'm sorry I lied to you. I'm sorry I hurt you. Most of all, I'm sorry that by the time I told you it was too late."

"What?"

"I think you're right, at least about how things started. I liked being your hero." He smiles, more than a little sheepish. "I saw you changing and I didn't want to let that go. I'm sorry," he says again. "I never wanted you to feel small."

Her smile is watery as she blinks back tears, smiling up at him. Once, those words would have been enough, everything she'd need to hear to fall back into his arms, but she wants more than apology. She wants to fill that hole inside her and the missing piece isn't him. "It's on me too. I knew something was wrong and I kept ignoring it. I think I liked knowing you'd always be there to catch me."

He crooks a thumb under her jaw, tilts her chin so she's staring into his dark eyes. They're warm and familiar, but they don't make her feel alive. The right man but the wrong eyes. Any doubts she had slip away. "And now?" Matt's voice is low, a little breathy. She doesn't need to hear his heartbeat to know it's racing.

"And now I hope we can be friends." She steps away, putting a healthy distance between them. She isn't tempted and she doesn't want to lead him on.

His mask slips, a hint of heartbreak in his eyes. Slowly, but with exact precision, he leans forward to press a kiss to her forehead. "I'd like that."

She's teary-eyed again when she pulls away, feeling much like she did the night she broke up with Pete. Some goodbyes are hard, even when they're the right thing to do. "I'll call Foggy, get the gang back together."

He smiles sadly, but hopeful too. "I'll be waiting."

True to her word, she texts Foggy. On the street, the air is thick and humid from the June heat, but Karen feels renewed. She does miss being Matt's friend. She enjoyed their discussions and debates, the silly nights drinking at Josie's. She knows it's going to take time to rebuild something and that they might never get back to where they were, but she's okay with it. A friendship built on honesty? It's what they should have had from the start.

 

* * *

 

Karen isn't the girl who waits but she refuses to be the girl that sits on the sidelines either. She might not know where Frank is, but David can find him, probably Curtis too, and she plans out what to ask them on the walk home. If Frank rejects her, it's his choice, but she doesn't want it to be for lack of trying.

Once, she'll put herself out there once, and then it's his move. She tells herself it will be okay either way; there's always a risk in being brave.

She’s sweaty when she gets to her apartment, the humidity making her hair stick to the back of her neck. All she wants is a shower and a cold drink, but there’s a man sitting on her couch when she opens the door. Her bag drops to the hardwood with a thud.

Bruce lifts her head, a guilty expression on her little face. Most days she won’t get within three feet of a man, but today, she’s perched happily in Frank’s lap.

Karen glares at her. “Traitor.”

Bruce snuggles closer to Frank. His brow wrinkles. “You talking to me or the dog?”

Hearing the low growl of his voice breaks through the shock and anger wells up in its wake. Who is this man to disappear from her life and show up in her apartment? Her _locked_ apartment. She sends Bruce another accusing look. “She knows what she did.”

She stomps to the refrigerator. The cold air feels good on her face and rummaging around for beer gives her something to do. “How’d you get in here?”

She hears rather than sees him get off the couch – Bruce’s low whine, the heavy thud of his boots on her floor. She can feel him behind her, a warm, wide presence in her tiny kitchen.

“Karen,” he says softly, brushing his fingertips down her back. “Will you look at me?”

Reluctantly, she turns. There’s not much room to save face by refusing to take her head out of the refrigerator.

He’s so different from the last time she saw him that she almost gasps. His face is clear of bruises, his bare arms scarred but not bleeding. His hair is a little longer, his skin a few shades darker, but his eyes – his eyes – they’re just as she remembers: soft, charged, hot and dark and so deep she could drown in them.

But this isn’t a memory. This is what she wanted. Maybe it wasn’t on her terms, but it’s what she wanted. They can work through the details later.

She wants so badly to touch him and she does, throws her arms around him and lets every sticky, sweaty inch of her mold to him.

His arms tighten around her and his mouth presses against her temple, so she can feel the words he whispers into her skin. “I missed you.

“Where have you been?” He stiffens and she realizes her mistake. They’ve been here before and it didn’t end well. She unwinds from his embrace and retrieves the beer. “Never mind. It’s not my business.”

“I was in California.” Her head snaps up in surprise. He shoves his hands in his pockets, but he doesn’t avert his eyes. He keeps his gaze level, his expression open. He’s letting her in. “After my last tour, Maria and I were going to take the kids to the west coast. They’d never seen the Pacific before.” He blinks, but doesn’t look away. “I went to see it for them.”

“And now you’re back.”

He nods. “Now I’m back.”

“For how long?” She winces at catch in her voice.

He winces too. “For good, I think.” He takes a step closer but she takes a step back. Her shoulder blades brush against the refrigerator door. One more step and she’d be trapped. “I’m sorry for picking up and leaving. I should have said something before I took off.”

Karen shakes her head. “I know they matter more. You did what you thought you needed to do to honor them.”

Frank is quiet for a long moment but then he takes that step and there’s no escape. “It’s not about more or less.” His voice trembles, his eyes wide and panicked. She wants to kiss it better. “Before I didn’t know and now I do.”

"Know what?"

“What it means to lose everything. In the service, I was always the one that might not come home, but then I did and…” he trails off, clears his throat. Karen’s never met them but she can see Maria and the kids, clear as day, swimming in front of his eyes. She wants to hold him again to make that pain go away. “I couldn’t come back until I was sure I could do it again. I want an after, Karen. I don’t know when that will be, but I know this: I want it with you.” His expression turns blank, eyes suddenly fearful. “You do want me – ”

Karen goes first, curling a hand around the back of his head and pulling his mouth down to hers. It’s a little sloppy and she tastes salt, his and hers, from the tears sliding down both their cheeks. There are tears in his eyes when he pulls back to look at her, but he isn’t ashamed, and it does something to her, this big, strong man that _kills_ with his bare hands, crying over Karen Page from nowhere Vermont. 

She kisses him again, rougher the second time, kisses him because she wants to, because she needs to, but mostly because she can. She tips the scales, pushes them over the precipice she’s been clinging to since the Royal Hospitality. Her back slams into the refrigerator and he groans into her mouth, his big hands fisting in the cotton of her blouse, pulling it out of her waistband so he can get to her skin. 

His shirt comes off next, revealing the web of scars covering his chest. Some are white lines that have faded with age but others are still healing, raw and puckered at the edges. Frank mumbles something about old wounds, turning to find his shirt, but she shushes him and presses a gentle kiss to the jagged shrapnel scar running the length of his bicep. She only sees the beauty there, a testament to how hard this man has fought to get to this place. 

“Don’t hide from me,” she whispers and takes his hand.

He follows her into the bedroom and kicks off his boots, lines them up neatly by the door like the good soldier he was trained to be. His socks come off next and he might have meant to tuck them into his boots, but she pulls off her skirt and unbuttons her blouse and he aimlessly drops them at his feet. 

Karen knows her body isn’t perfect. She’s too pale and too tall, pretty enough but nothing special. Standing in just her bra and underwear, Frank stares at her, and stares at her, stares at her so long she crosses her arms over her chest and starts bending over to grab her blouse. 

“Let me look at you.” His voice is a guttural groan, scraped and raw like it’s been dredged from the deepest recesses of his chest. He takes the blouse from her hands and lets it flutter to the floor, spends a long minute staring at her. It’s not easy standing there under such intense scrutiny and Karen feels her skin flush.

“Look at you blushing from head to toe,” he says softly, eyes tracking from her overheated cheeks to her bare feet. “I didn’t think I should have this,” he says softly, tracing the edge of her bra with one rough, blunt finger. “I didn’t think it was fair to put all my shit on you.” She opens her mouth to protest but he cuts her off with a kiss, loose and playful, but with the promise of more. “I’m holding on, Karen. Two hands. I don’t want to let go.”

“Then don’t.” 

He kisses her, hands sliding down her back to grip her hips, pulling her flush against him, so close she can feel his heart beating in time with her own.

She knows there’s work to do, but the hard part is over. That empty, aching hole inside her, she can feel it sealing shut with each slide of Frank’s mouth, each brush of his hands over her skin. She arches into him, this hard, broken man she’s chosen to love, and cups his face in her hands – both hands – so she can look into his eyes and let him see everything she feels, especially the words she isn’t ready to say.

There’s time enough for that. He’s _here_ , with her, and he’s real. They’re real. Everything else can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s all folks! Thank you as always for taking this journey with me.

**Author's Note:**

> What began as a one-shot turned into a three part odyssey exploring how Karen copes with the events of “The Punisher” season one and “Daredevil” season two, and in particular, the people she collects along the way. 
> 
> Title courtesy of Bruce Springsteen’s “Human Touch,” which while not my favorite Springsteen song, is pretty awesome and more importantly, perfectly exemplifies how Frank/Karen currently relate to one another.
> 
> The book Curtis leaves for Karen is Tim O’Brien’s “The Things They Carried”. If you haven’t read it, I highly recommend it.


End file.
